“My dear!,” I cried; and she laughed with childlike exultation at my joy in her.
“Pleased to see your deserted and ill-used wife?”
“Babs . . .” Her cheeks were pink from the biting cold outside; her hair and eye-lashes were spangled with tiny raindrops. As she flung her coat aside and twined her arms about my neck, a familiar, faint, warm fragrance rose from the carnations at her waist. As she clung to me and our lips met, I could have fancied that no other man had ever made her heart beat so quickly. “I’ve never seen you like this before!,” I cried.
“I’ve been getting well . . . for your sake, sweetheart. I’ve been so patient, so good. And I did miss you so.”
“I’ve been thinking of you day and night,” I answered truthfully enough.
“The next time you go away, I’ll tell your secretary to send me a daily telegram: ‘Missing you dreadfully best love George.’ You’d never do it on your own account. What’s the matter, darling?”
Unconsciously I must have drawn away from her embrace. The delirium was returning; and I could only think of the telegram which she had sent me the day after she asked Eric Lane to run away with her.
“Some bad news, I’m afraid. I didn’t want to spoil our first moment together, but you’ll have to be told some time. I’ve not seen any papers . . .”
Barbara’s hands fell from my shoulders; and she walked slowly to the fire.
“I . . . have,” she whispered; and her head drooped as though I had struck her.